A Splash of Colour
by lena1987
Summary: Complete. Headmaster Snape enjoys the more illicit sides to controlling a magical castle. Written for HP Kinkfest 2016 for the prompt by Hawkflight7: voyeurism. HG/SS. Mature readers, please.
_**A/N:** Thank you to the fabulous Banglabou for being such a wonderful beta. Also: this is explicit. Proceed... if you dare. _

* * *

**A Splash of Colour**

I am late. Not _precisely_ late, but I am verging on being… disappointed, if I cannot stop Minnie from warbling on. My fingers twitch with impatience.

"So, Severus," she says, "that is exactly why we must—"

"I agree," I blurt out, waving a vague hand in the air when her eyes widen. "Just do it."

"You _agree?_ "

 _Yes, I bloody fucking do!_

"Yes," I say firmly, hardly remembering whatever it is that I am supposedly agreeing to. I stand and move quickly to the door of the staff room. It would be polite to question whether or not our business was well and truly done with, but time is not on my side this night. "My apologies," I tell my Deputy Headmistress. "I have a potion to attend to."

The excuse works every single time.

"Of course, of course!" she says, still filled with guilt over the events of the previous year. We both know my excuse is utter shite, but neither wish to prod and poke the other enough to really have an actual discussion.

"Goodnight, Min," I say, turning with a flourish and exiting the room.

A prickling sensation ghosts over my skin as I walk; my boots pound on the castle floors as I pick up the pace. I pause in the shadows with my palm flat on the stone wall. I lean against it, my forehead resting on the cool stone. I send the query out quietly, and the castle is all too eager to respond.

Perhaps Hogwarts itself did not intend to grant a headmaster so much leniency with the wards and student locations. I am absolutely sure (well, not absolutely – rumours abound about the perverted Founders, after all) that the castle does not mean to assist me with the task I have in mind, yet it does all the same.

"Where is she?" I whisper, stroking a finger along the wall. The castle answers readily: the devious, devilish minx is in the library.

.

.

I prowl towards the doors, a Disillusionment charm already in place. Slowly, I slink through them; the castle is my friend, and no tell-tale creaks from the wooden doors are heard.  
I smirk, unseen in the darkness of the night.

And then I hear her.

.

.

The Restricted Section is off limits to all students, unless they have permission. But _she_ —

As an apprentice, she has permission from Minnie to use the books behind the rope all she likes – but certainly not _now_. I check my watch and nod to myself. Tsk tsk, Miss Granger.

No student – or fledging staff member – of mine should be sitting on the fourth rung of a tall ladder, skirt pushed up to her waist and her wet folds glistening in the cool night air at eleven thirty on a Wednesday evening.

I creep along the bookcases until my invisible form lurks not far from where she is perched on the ladder. I can almost _taste_ the scent of her – the sweet, sour musk that clings to her sex makes my eyelids flutter and I clutch one of the shelves, preparing lest my knees should buckle.

It has been _so long._

 _._

 _._

Miss Granger is a very naughty young woman, indeed.

These moments are never planned, never organised – in fact, she is entirely unaware that someone joins her on her midnight escapades. The castle is my forbidden friend; I know down to the second when anyone misbehaves in common areas, and by Merlin, this witch is misbehaving.

Why does she do this? What is it about the night that entrances her, beguiles her?  
I have long come to the conclusion that it is a relic from the days of war – that she cannot sleep, and so she searches for release, for that seductive thrill that comes with doing something so very… _public_.

.

.

Legs wide open on the ladder, Miss Granger makes a pretty and dangerous picture. Her riotous curls cascade down her back and over her shoulders; shorter strands near her forehead are stuck to her skin from sweat: the fruit of her efforts.

Her back is arched; her head rests on another rung. Her white blouse is gaping open – no brassiere, of course – and the buds of her naked breasts are tightened and clearly visible. My fingers tremble with the need to touch her – to feel the warm silk that is her skin. Petulantly, I whine to myself that it is not _fair_ that she should perform such an exhibition on her own. Why should I not join her? Why should she display herself, and not wish for me to take her? Then, inevitably, I remember that she has no idea that I am here. She never has any idea.

Well, good.

Her long, sun-kissed fingers gently roll one nipple between thumb and forefinger. She gives a low, breathy sigh of pleasure. I feel my trousers growing uncomfortably tight as I imagine _my_ fingers dancing along her breasts.

Still, I manage to stuff my fist into my mouth to hide a groan as her other hand wanders down her bare belly, over the band of her grey skirt and straight to the short dark curls between her legs. She tugs on the curls ever so slightly; her shining pink lips curve up at the side in a smile and she hisses.

I turn just enough to place two hands on the shelf before me; I shan't give in and allow my hands to stroke my now aching cock, no. This shall remain my one and only indulgence, providing a splash of passionate colour to dreary days of mind-numbing work.

I watch, hardly able to breathe, as one index finger circles her clit. She tosses her head and purrs. Soon enough her other hand leaves her breasts and slips down to join the other. I gasp along with her as she slides two fingers between her folds, while she continues to stroke her tiny little nub.

A groan issues from her throat – _or mine? No matter_ – as she picks up the pace, stopping once or twice to lick her own fingers and return them to her clit, spreading the wetness of her saliva around in slow, agonising circles.

And then—

Oh, _gods_.

I swallow heavily as she reaches blindly behind her body and taps one hand with her wand. Her shriek – silenced almost immediately – brings me to life, and I am panting as her charmed fingers begin to vibrate. She thrusts them into her body over and over again until her back is bowed from the excruciating pleasure of it all.

I lick my lips as moisture seeps from her; her fingers are wet as they appear between plunges into her depths.

Considerately – and selfishly – I throw a silencing spell towards the main doors of the library. The signs of her coming to an earth-shattering climax are near; her brows are furrowed, there is a sheen of sweat between her breasts. Her body is taut, and I suspect that Miss Granger is very much on the verge of—

"Oh! Oh, oh, gods, oh _yes!_ " she screams, her fingers moving furiously as the vibrations bring her tumbling over the edge.

I want her. I want her, I want her, I want her.

Nay – I _need_ her.

It is painful and maddening not to rush to her, not to shove my cock inside of her, fuck her fiercely on that damnable ladder. She is beautiful, lost in the moment as she is. My hips are thrusting, instinctively searching, seeking, yet meeting nothing but the barrier of my trousers and a lower shelf.

 _Oh gods fuck,_ I cannot take any more of this sweet, painful pleasure… Still, desire rises like a wave until my very skin is a raw nerve, and just the very _idea_ of sliding into her is—

I must resist. She is my charge, and I am her Headmaster. This sight is not for me, and her pulsing centre is presented for her own gratification, not mine.

And yet…

When she whimpers and mewls, tapping her vibrating fingers once or twice to her clit, I scowl down at my crotch and the spreading dampness from my illicit ejaculation. I clear it silently with a flick of my fingers.

Miss Granger cleans herself and fixes her clothing. I follow her with my eyes as she bends to pick up her beaded bag, her arse in the air. For a second I think of rushing to her, slamming my sweaty palm down on her plump, tanned cheeks in revenge for making me feel such things…  
No, no. _Not for me,_ I chant inwardly.

She saunters away and stops at the main doors. I approve at the spell she casts to make sure that there is no one on the other side. Still, I mourn the loss of her… this doesn't happen often, and I am sure that it will be at least another few weeks until she is driven by monotony to put herself on a platter for my perusal again…

I am lost in the swing of her hips as she pushes one door open slowly – so lost, in fact, that I do not hear her at all, at first.

"I said," she repeats huskily, "good night, Headmaster. It was…" She falters. I am gobsmacked. "It was _wonderful_. I hope it was wonderful for you, Severus."

And then she is gone, and I am laughing. I am laughing from disbelief and madness; it takes me many minutes to calm myself.

But calm myself I do, and soon enough I am back in the corridors, patrolling long into the night, a smirk upon my lips.


End file.
